


guilt (i'm going to kiss you)

by saltytangerine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Steve Rogers, Canon Compliant, Captain America: The First Avenger, First Kiss, Gay Bucky Barnes, M/M, Military, Post-Battle of Azzano (Marvel), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, lesbian sarah rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24287947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltytangerine/pseuds/saltytangerine
Summary: “I’m not asking you to desert with me, I just want to kiss you.” It’s almost a taunt sung from the lips of a man who is no longer afraid of anything. He isn’t scared of anything anymore, not even Steve pushing him away; he only fears heights now.---what if steve and bucky hadn't kissed until wwii??
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 12
Kudos: 61





	guilt (i'm going to kiss you)

**Author's Note:**

> this is an entire deviation away from my usual stevebucky in the fact that i really really like the idea of them being childhood sweethearts, but i also love the idea of them finding each other in the war so??? no one is a loser here.

Guilt is Steve’s constant. Guilt that he can’t do enough, guilt that he doesn’t _want_ to do enough, that he can’t save enough people, guilt that he doesn’t pray enough, isn’t _good_ enough. Catholicism drilled the idea of guilt into him from an early age and left him young and praying on his knees until they were sore and made a terrific cracking noise when he finally stood. His guilt blossomed and grew with him through the years and now, at 6’ 2”, his guilt is almost as large as him. Guilt makes him slow, something he knows he should shed, but _it’s a war_ , things have to be done and the rosary passed from his mother comforts him in the fact that he can be helped to atone for his sins in the silence of nightfall even behind enemy lines. In the cold, damp darkness of the European forests he finds himself in, he can talk to God alone. The guilt from asking Bucky to join him puts his stomach in his throat whenever he sees him with a gun in his hand, his jaw set in concentration as he strategizes with the others, eyes always on the target. He doesn’t know if Bucky feels the same guilt that he does, like he feels he needs to buy his way into heaven alongside him, buy peace. 

He dreams of going back home, back to their slightly damp apartment and maybe, with the money from their discharge, buying a new bed for their room. He dreams of kissing, finding a love at home, but since his seventeenth birthday, he has only dreamed of kissing one person; the only person he has not kissed. He lingers on the thought of moving, just far enough that people wouldn’t ask who this new Steve is and where on Earth Bucky found him. London, however, has become their second home and as a sergeant, he has the rights to his own room, and Steve, a captain, is afforded the same luxury. They sleep in the same bed, in Steve’s, pressed tightly to one another, Steve’s chest solid against his back and his arms tight around him, reminding him so desperately of home. Their touch is as it was at home, innocent and tender, a cup of the cheek in the mornings, a hand at the wrist in the evenings, a head on a shoulder when they’re alone and sleepy, shoulders touching, south of the river, in Woolwich, drinking along with the Royal Artillery boys in a smoke filled bar, amber lights matching the sombre mood held by the servicemen, awaiting the details of their next post.

“We could be sitting ducks here until they decide to ship us out, east or west, don't that terrify you?” He spits out, still unconvinced that he should drag Bucky across the world anymore than he already has been. His brain conveniently disregards that they have already four missions under their belts, and Bucky has yet to waver and sound reluctant to follow. He already has details of the next mission, but to bring the idea of the Alps and more fighting makes for poor conversation.

“Makes you feel insignificant, don't it? Like you could be gone in an instant and everything bad you've ever done would be forgotten because now you're a fallen soldier.” Bucky runs his finger along the rim of his glass; he’s used to drinking his friends under the table, drinking until he’s thrown out of bars, but in his uniform he is untouchable, free to do as he likes. Now with this New Steve, he has competition.

“I ain't even got a chance to do anything bad.” He says with a half smile, a half shrug and a glance towards him. He’s right, his Bucky is right, not that he could ever admit that to his face. 

“That isn’t true, didn’t I dust you off too many times?” He didn’t mind, it’s a memory he holds fond and close to his heart as he remembers _his_ Stevie with grazed knuckles and nosebleeds, split lips and black eyes, and how warm his hand was in his when they walked home. He takes another drink and eyes the pack of smokes in Steve’s loose fist, inching closer, and with each sip of his drink, he feels bolder and pillowy pink of Steve’s lips looks more and more inviting. He knows it isn’t the drink making him feel this way-- it doesn’t touch the edges now, not since he left the continent and the syringes and table.

“That ain’t _bad.”_ Steve tilts his head away from Bucky as he leans into his space, crowding him; aware of Bucky’s eyes on his lips.

“I'm gonna kiss you.” His cheeks flushed, he feels brave, strong, like they’re alone in the camp, tucked away behind closed doors and with soldiers crowded into the bar, he feels like no one can hear them, the English not paying attention to the lone Americans.

“No you ain't.” Steve turns his head and his fingers close around Bucky’s wrist, pulling him away from the bar, between the bodies; guilt flashing through him and turning his cheeks pink. “Nothing good can come of two guys bein’ together, it curses them.” 

“Curses? The hell are you talking about?” Bucky’s eyebrows are drawn together, furrowed, his cheeks a little numb and his chest warm from the beer that Steve keeps buying him.

“My ma, she loved a woman, then she was forever plagued with bad luck, doomed to die before 40, you know that.” The words in his mouth sound wrong, poetic but misplaced, and yet, he stands by his statement, the memory of his mother dying in bed with a photo of Gianna at her bedside while her hand was tucked away in his, under the blankets; a vain attempt at keeping her warm, still too sore for him to revisit.

“I’m not asking you to desert with me, _I just want to kiss you_.” It’s almost a taunt sung from the lips of a man who is no longer afraid. He isn’t scared of much anymore, not really, not even Steve pushing him away; in fact he only fears heights now.

“Why me? I ain't ever kissed a man before.” 

“Humor a drunk man, pal.” He plays his part flawlessly, maybe too convincingly in the way he stumbles over his own feet at the doorstep.

“One kiss, that's all.” He had been sure he was _wrong;_ hours in bed and he found himself thinking about kissing Maggie from down the hall, sometimes he even dreamt of kissing her brother, but never Bucky, he couldn’t live with the guilt of even holding that thought; it would be dooming his closest friend, no matter how he knew exactly the amount of freckles that appeared on his nose in the summer, how toned he looked in the winter after starting boxing. He seemed to only be able to serve others, never himself. 

“Scouts honor.” Bucky straightens himself up, holding his hand up, thumb tucked across his palm. 

“Not out in the open.” There’s a pause, Steve’s eyes scanning Bucky’s face for even a flicker of hesitation, and upon finding none, he pulls them through the crowd, not looking anyone in the eye as they make their way to the exit, past the soldiers pushing their way inside. London at this time of year is smoggy, Steve can barely see anything further than arm’s length, even with his new perfect eyesight, but Bucky hasn’t strayed that far away, his fingers still closed around his wrist. 

He looks tired, he thinks, but he doesn’t sleep, not even in his arms at night. Steve has fallen asleep in the time since they had been reunited though, with his nose pressed against the nape of Bucky's neck, where the ends of his hair have started to curl for lack of a haircut. It's not regulation, and Steve could write him up, but truth is, he misses his curls, he always hated how the Brylcreem made his hand feel sticky when he would cup the back of Bucky's head when they were drunk and the living room spun around them, before the war, before he lost his taste for alcohol. 

His hands cup his face just like they used to and through the sickly orange light, Bucky’s eyes look glassy, his mouth downturned at the corners, a memory of the split in his lip pink and faint across his skin. He’s close enough that he can smell the army issue shaving soap on Bucky’s clean shaven cheeks and the sharp woodsy smell of the whisky left on his lips. There is little that raises his heart rate, he has found. 

The serum makes it easier for him to breathe; his breath no longer comes in short sharp bursts, air no longer feels like daggers in his lungs on every exertion, no matter how small, and Bucky’s hands on his waist ground him and bring him back to SE18. His heart races and he wonders briefly why he never entertained the thought of kissing him, for now guilt has fled his mind and it’s easy to guide him back against the wall, hidden in the shadows. Though the serum helps with his breathing, his heart pounds hard and he hears the familiar woosh in his ears when his chest is pressed against Bucky’s, his hands tilting his head up just slightly and it continues to be strange how Bucky now needs to look up, if only just slightly, to him when they are standing. 

He stands in front of him, his back against the wall, the back of his head against the brick and Steve is sure that he can see a smile start to blossom, maybe the first _genuine_ smile he has seen in weeks. “Are you gonna kiss me then?”

“Yeah,” he says in an exhale, lost as he leans forward, his lips almost on Bucky’s. If Bucky were to pull away now, he wouldn’t be upset, he might even expect it. His ego might be a little sore at the embarrassment, but he knows now, he knows he wants to kiss him now that seed has been planted in his mind. The hands on his waist don’t turn into palms on his chest, pushing him away and he doesn’t hear Bucky’s laugh; instead he feels the grip tighten on his waist, his head tilt so his lower lip brushes over his and he hears a hitch of his breath at the contact. It isn't a kiss yet, he tells himself, there's still time to pull away, but his heart holds him in place, pressed against Bucky, and he finally relents, their lips meeting and all distance between them closed. It isn’t his first kiss, though his nerves treat it like the first, he has sweaty palms and his heart is beating so hard in his throat that he feels like he might actually throw up, but he doesn’t let go, his hands still cup Bucky’s head like it’s the most gentle thing in the universe, and Bucky’s hands tuck themselves under the back of his jacket, his fingernails dragging a little down the back of his shirt. The music from inside seeps out in to the street, in to the orange glow of the night and it feels like a dream that he can’t remember in the mornings; kissing his best friend outside a pub in London, thousands of miles away from home and if that wasn’t strange enough, he’s taller than him. 

He expected haste, hurry and brevity, but Bucky kisses him back as slowly and languidly as Steve started. It’s slow, a gentle swell, warmth running through his entire body, his fingertips tingling where they rest on Bucky’s cheeks and it’s only when he takes a hand from its place on his cheek that Bucky speaks. 

“You can tick it off your list now, y’know, kissin’ a fella.” Bucky’s words are quiet, his lips still partly against his.  
  
“Thanks,” he says, his arm securely around his waist now, and for a moment, there’s no other noise. Kissing is where the “moment” is supposed to happen, surely, but Bucky’s heavily lidded eyes, his parted lips, still a little shiny from where Steve’s were just a second ago, and now is where Steve feels a rush of pure adoration and a fleeting thought of _how long could we have been doing this_. There’s no guilt, it doesn’t come and stab him in the heart, attacking him in the moment of quiet they share; he feels light, buoyed high above the low lying smog.

“They’re gonna call you back in soon enough, champ.” He turns his head just enough so Steve’s lips brush his cheek and he can feel his smile, feel the squeeze at his waist; the opposite of a push, always a pull.  
  
“What if I don’t want to go back?” He says, his breath warming Bucky’s cheek, his eyes still closed; he isn’t sure of how much weight he’s putting on Bucky as he leans against him, but he hasn’t heard a murmur of protest and he can feel his breath even back out against his chest. It’s warm, and he could bury his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck until the sun rose and he wouldn’t mind in the slightest. 

“You have to, you’re our captain.” Bucky’s fingers are gentle as they gently grasp at the hair at the crown of Steve’s head, gently tugging, urging him to lift his head, to look at him, and Steve isn’t sure if he could stand seeing _his_ Bucky with red lips and cheeks, blue irises swallowed by the black of his pupils. 

“I could call an early night, come home early with you.” Blinds are already being put up by the houses across the street, blacking out the light from within spilling out into the street. The lamps would be dimmed further soon enough and he has learned to tell time by the gradual darkness that enveloped the streets in the evenings, blanketing the city, a shield of darkness to the planes that hum above. 

“Hey, you don’t want _everyone_ knowing what we do out by the trash,” he says, tilting his head so his lips meet Steve’s again for a moment. 

“No…” He admits, lips not leaving his, chasing after Bucky’s when he leans back against the wall again, almost sagging into it. This is the Bucky he left behind, pliant and gentle, smiling and a little warm after a drink. There had been nights before the war when they shared bottles of beer in their apartment, dragging them out just so they would last longer. He would dangle his legs over the edge of the fire escapes, thighs so slim they could fit comfortably between two bars, Bucky sat by his side, with his back to the railings, eyes fixated on either the window or Steve, not looking down. 

“But say if I went back early… You could come back afterwards and we could… Keep doing what we were doing out by the trash, but without havin’ to keep an ear out for drunk Englishmen.” His voice is quiet, a gentle hum against Steve’s chest, tone so relaxed Steve thinks he sounds like he could fall asleep where he stands, resting in his arms. He could be happy like this, guilt could disappear and he could finally be _content_ for a while with the promise of Bucky in whatever home they could make for themselves and with Bucky’s lips on his. There could be no amount of guilt in the world that would convince him to live a life without ever kissing him again, not now that he had only just started.

“Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for sticking around, find me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/saltietangerine) where i complain about poor infection control practices and make bucky barnes themed soap and crocheted vulvas.


End file.
